


Lord, Keep Me Alive 'Til Sunday

by ScaryScarecrows



Series: Cigarette Smoke & Snark [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batdad, Gen, Jason Todd is Robin, Jason was a good Robin fight me DC, WILL THIS BE THE END OF GOTHAM?, hell if I know we'll find out together, jonathan crane is tired, tags and warnings updated as we go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:34:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22137145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows
Summary: Jason’s breath is loud in his ears. He supposes, rather morbidly, that that’s a good thing. If he can still hear himself breathing (gasping struggling he doesn’t want to die) , he’s still here.
Series: Cigarette Smoke & Snark [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1515788
Comments: 8
Kudos: 49





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Y’know that bit at the end of Knight, when Bruce is minding his own business in Crime Alley and then there’s swarms of attacking Jokers? I’m Bruce. Life is Joker. BUT I AM WINNING, and this is me trying to get back into the swing of Plots and everything. Title from ‘Hell’s Next Door’ by Hello Demons...Meet Skeletons.

Jason’s breath is loud in his ears. He supposes, rather morbidly, that that’s a good thing. If he can still hear himself breathing  _ (gasping struggling he doesn’t want to die) _ , he’s still here.

He’s not sure if his eyes are open or not. It’s dark, but it’s been dark and. And that’s okay, because if it’s dark, he can’t see the shadow in the corner. It’s still there, he knows that, waiting. Maybe it wants his soul. Or maybe it’s going to take over his body once he’s dead. But he knows it’s there.

He tries to swallow. It hurts. But it rouses him a little more, regrounds him to the bed and the lingering taste of blue Gatorade and the hand he’s still holding.

Unfortunately, swallowing might have been a bad idea; it...triggers something, way down in his throat, and there’s a painful tickle before he gags and gulps for air.

_ Hurts it hurts please not like this-- _

More Gatorade. It helps, quiets the gagging, and he stills. No more movement. Movement’s bad.

Jason’s breath is loud in his ears. He supposes, rather morbidly, that that’s a good thing. If he can still hear himself breathing  _ (gasping struggling he doesn’t want to die) _ , he’s still here.

He’s still here for a little while longer.


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Let us all take a moment to appreciate that Lego DC Supervillains has gifted us with Bruce saying, ‘happiness? I’m out.’ That has nothing to do with this, of course, but I felt we should all be grateful regardless.

In his time as Batman, Bruce has been coughed on, sneezed on, vomited on, and-only once, thankfully-defecated on.

Being Batman is...unpleasant...at times.

He’s used to it, somewhat. He doesn’t like it, but he’s used to it. He’s also good at telling when something’s about to happen and tactfully stepping to the side. Like now; the man he’s just cuffed has just pulled in a hasty breath, throat jerking. Bruce steps back and to the left seconds before there’s a horrendous choking sound. That’s not a smoker’s cough, that’s somebody sick.

Lovely.

“You shouldn’t have been out tonight,” he says dryly. He’ll be taking some Airborne when he gets home. Or asking Alfred to make him a mug of that horrible-tasting-yet-brutally-effective fruit...tea. “Surely your boss doesn’t pay you that well.”

“Fuck off.”

“What? No threats of the swear jar? B, I’m thinking you’ve just got it in for me.” Jason drops down from...ah, there’s an alcove. The man glares at him and suddenly sneezes, gobs of mucus winding up on his face and on the ground. “Ew.”

Bruce privately agrees with Jason’s assessment, but as the adult here, he can’t say so. He does take pity and wipes the man’s face off, mentally deciding that yes, Alfred’s Magic Cold-Be-Gone is going to be called for. For both of them.

“Come on, Robin.” Gordon will be here soon. He can deal with this. He takes zinc, because Barbara makes him.

“You didn’t get puked on, didja?” Jason asks, once they’re a few rooftops away. “You don’t smell, but…”

“No.”

“That’s somethin’, right?”

“Hn.”

“Eh, like it really matters, I guess...I mean, have you ever gotten sick? Or do you just glare yourself back to health in the mirror?”

Bruce has gotten sick. Once in the last ten years. It was Dick’s fault, because Dick was a very sociable child who insisted that Suzie McFly (grade four, Mrs. Wilson’s class)  _ always _ had a stuffy nose and that it was nothing. It was not nothing; Dick spent two weeks in bed. Bruce was down a month. It was terrible.

“Hn.”

“Why do I have to do all the banter?” Jason complains. 

Bruce does not smile. Batman doesn’t smile unless it will terrorize the enemy into surrendering. But he thinks about it, and he’s sure Jason hears that when he says, “Robin’s job description.”

“Gee, old man, first you want me to kick aa-butt-come on, I caught that, don’t tell A-and  _ then _ you want me to do all the computer research, and now I gotta handle the banter? You don’t even pay me! This is bull hockey! This is an  _ unpaid internship! _ ”

“Do you want to quit?”

“No.”

“Then you can handle the banter.”

Jason sticks his tongue out at him. Bruce magnanimously pretends not to notice. He’s good at that. Dick used to make faces. Still does, actually.*

“Are we headin’ home?”

The streets are quiet. It’s getting late. And yes, Bruce wants (not really) the Fruity Misery.

“Yes.”

“Can I drive?”

“No.”

“Fun sucker.”

* * *

Jason doesn’t fight the Fruity Misery, but he does give Bruce dirty looks when Alfred’s back is turned. And then he’s off to bed, insisting he’s not tired (lies) but that  _ one _ of them needs to act like a grown-up.

“I’ll be up when my tea is gone, Alfred.” Or when the sun’s up. He’s not sure yet. “I just have a few things to put into the computer.”

“Very good, sir.” Alfred sounds unconvinced. “At least one of you understands the importance of a night’s rest.”

Traitor.

Bruce is a little hesitant to drink the Fruity after that, lest it have an extra sedative in it, but risks must be taken.

His sneezer-actual name Alvin Lowery, aged thirty-has a file. He’s a repeat offender, mostly burglary, but he’s been known to offer his services to the Arkham residents from time to time. Scarecrow has made use of him to plant his toxins in hard-to-access areas. Bruce caught up with him outside a hotel tonight, but Jason said there was nothing to find. Foiled plot? Probably a foiled robbery; the Gem Show’s in town. Lot of tourists and vendors with money to lose.

But not today.

Bruce closes the file, finishes the Fruity (blech), and trudges towards the stairs. It’s been a productive night.

  
  
  


*See  _ B:tAS  _ for Dick mocking Bruce behind his back.


	3. Chapter Two

Jonathan Crane is entirely too used to the sound of gunshots. First of all, it’s Gotham. Second of all, the police shoot at him on a fairly regular basis. Third of all, he-or Kitty, or whatever hired help they’ve scrounged up-are frequently shooting at Batman.

This is none of those things. This was a single gunshot, the type used, more often than not, to fire said hired help. Also, it’s daytime. Batman may be human, but they’ve all poked fun at him fearing the sunlight.

Jonathan frowns, sets his razor down, and twists towards the door. The door answers none of his questions, but nothing bad happens to him and, well, half his face is foam.

…

“Kitty?” Better safe than sorry. “You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?”

“We have to move!”

That implies cockroaches. She’s said that they have to move four times in two days for exactly that reason.

He shakes his head and goes back to his face. He doesn’t like stubble. He’s never liked it. It’s itchy and burlap...snags. Oh, God, does it ever snag. No one warned him about this before he put the mask on.

Kitty’s flinging things into a suitcase when he comes back out of the bathroom. Really. Really?

“Kitty--”

“We are moving.”

“We are staying right here.” Where is his shirt…ah. “Roaches can’t hurt you--”

“I didn’t shoot at a roach,” she shoots back, lunging across him to grab the little folding stepstool* they got at the dollar store. “I shot Lou, who was vomiting blood.”

Jonathan’s brain comes to a screeching halt. He didn’t do anything to Lou. Lou was a model henchman, quick to do as he was told and capable of hefting large crates with ease.

“Blood?”

“Yeah.” She brushes past and  _ hey, is that his sweater? _ “He just went down in the hall. I figured he could stay there.”

This can’t be good. In Gotham, things out of the ordinary are always, always a problem. When their ordinary is ‘man-crocodile hybrid lives in the sewers’, well…

“I haven’t heard anything,” he says, dredging his rolling case out from under the bed. Can’t have his chemicals being damaged, after all. “Not even from Oswald.”

“Neither have I, but I’m not about to die a horrible death.”

All right, chemicals, spare glasses, his straight razor-there really is a difference-and the burner phone with a grand total of two numbers in it. There. All set.

This is all very inconvenient, really. Roaches aside, he’d liked this lair. The neighborhood’s decent, no Nosey Nellies or anything like that at all. He thinks back, desperate to somehow blame this on his work, and comes up blank. He’s never, not even in the early days, witnessed that particular side effect.

How dare Lou get sick like that. He’s lucky he’s dead…

His first thought is that the man had crossed paths with, say, Ivy or Joker or one of their other colleagues. But that’s unlikely; the people who are both capable of and willing to do something like are currently vacationing at Arkham. Oswald’s out, and Harvey, and Eddie...who else, anyone on the bottom rungs...no. No one capable. Well, Fugate, but this isn’t...and he’s not foolish enough to…

Well, diseases have to start somewhere. But why here? Why not in Batman’s lair, hmm? What has he d--

Mm. But still. Why  _ here? _

“Come on.” Kitty pulls on his sleeve. “Oswald can probably set us up for the night, at least.”

Probably. He owes them. (Long story. And this is a safe way to cash in that favor, always a plus when dealing with the Penguin.) 

He doesn’t spare the brain matter on the wall more than a passing glance on the way out the door. It’s not his problem, after all.

* * *

They walk in the door and are greeted with guns.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t shoot the pair of you and feed you to my vultures,” Oswald snarls from the upper floor. “One. Good. Reason.”

Surely this isn’t about the incident last January. Surely...no, no, it isn’t, because Oswald got even in March, ratted them out to Batman. He hasn’t done anything to encourage this sort of behavior.

“Because you’re likely to hit a gas tank,” he says dryly, “and poison yourselves.”

“And you’d miss us immediately,” Kitty adds. “I know we’re even.”

“And you owe us.” He rolls his wrists and allows himself a small smirk when the men closest to him recoil. “We’re here to call in that favor.”

“Go to Hell,  _ Scarecrow _ ,” Oswald snaps. “One week’s notice, I said. Of course, Oswald, old friend, you said. One week’s notice before I do anything awful. But what do I discover this fine day?” Oh, God, what now. “Your-your-your blasted shenanigans! Poisoning my boys with some new failure, I presume, given the lack of screams--”

Wait.

Poisoning?

“I haven’t done anything in the last month,” he says. “In case you’ve forgotten, I got the cast off my arm on Sunday. Today is Thursday, and yesterday was the first time I’ve touched my beakers since Batman put me in it.”

Oswald does not look convinced, but he waddles partway down the stairs regardless.

“You  _ swear _ , Crane, that you had nothing to do with this.”

He bites back the urge to say,  _ on my great-grandmother’s unmarked grave _ , because now is not the time. Another day, perhaps…

“Absolutely.”

“What do you want.”

“Lodging,” Kitty says. “Our muscle decided to start vomiting blood and we had to move out.”

Oswald frowns.

“You’re not at fault, then.” He just said...never mind. “That  _ is _ interesting.”

Not really. Jonathan does not terribly enjoy the ongoing ‘who is attacking Gotham today?’ that some people (Batman…) do. He is not responsible, and that’s all he cares.

“Oswald, would we go back on our word?”

“Yes.”

Kitty just laughs.

“That’s fair enough. Really, though, we wouldn’t do it so soon.” Eh… “Now. Favor?”

“Humph.” Worst case, there’s enough toxin on his wrists to take down everyone in this room. He’ll use it if he has to, Penguin be damned. “Fine. Step into my office and I’ll see what I’ve got.”

“But boss,” somebody says, not even trying to be quiet, “what if--”

“Office,” Oswald says firmly. “Please ignore Mister Cornell, he is...new.”

Pity.

“Thank you, Oswald,” he says smoothly, giving the unfortunate Cornell his nicest smile. “Consider us even.”

“If I find out this  _ is _ your fault, mark my words--”

“You’d miss us,” Kitty says again. “And it isn’t.”

“I don’t make mistakes in my formulas.” And he’s rather offended that that would be a consideration. “Not. At.  **_All._ ** ”

And if he finds out that this is caused, somehow, by some fool attempting to  _ recreate _ his formula...he’s not a religious man, but really, the only thing the theoretical fool can do is pray for their soul. He’s not a forgiving man, either, but he’s patient. So Batman may come and attempt to offer salvation. He’s broken out of Arkham many times, he’ll do it again.

But he doubts that’s the issue. This...this feels new. Different. There’s a new player on the board, and now they all get to sit back and see if they’ll make themselves interesting.

  
  


*Those of you who can reach your own mugs without climbing need to just pipe down,  _ you know nothing. _


End file.
